


No Exotic Pets

by TheLilacPilgrim



Category: British Actor RPF, RPF - Fandom
Genre: Collars, Dominance, Leashes, M/M, Secret Relationship, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLilacPilgrim/pseuds/TheLilacPilgrim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conan really loves having Stephen on the show. Actually, he’ll do anything he can to keep this particular guest happy. Even if it means allowing himself to be humped on national television and wearing a collar after the show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Exotic Pets

**Author's Note:**

> There was a disappointing lack of fic for the pair of them so I figured I'd kill two birds with one fan fiction. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own or know these guys, I'm not either one of them and it's not my fault if you can't get these images out of your head after reading.

It’s rare, he can’t help but note as he cranes his head upwards to stare into the Bristolian’s watery blue eyes, that he meets someone taller than himself. Of course, the height difference isn’t quite as noticeable when he’s standing up instead of kneeling obediently on the set floor in front of quite a large audience. _A large audience_ his mind cautions him as Stephen approaches him slowly, a long-fingered hand outstretched as though he might grab him quickly if he tries to scramble away from this. When the taller man crouches, arms enveloping him loosely, he tries to look apprehensive, regretful, and it elicits a bigger laugh from the audience which is always his goal on the air. That’s what they pay him for. But even so, he can’t help but smile at the absurdity of the action. He could swear he can feel the Englishman’s heat against his abdomen though the thrusts don’t meet his body, just missing the fabric but still he’s sure that warmth is from the other man… for the most part, anyway.

“You can see?” Stephen asks, face flushed, a hand gently resting on Conan’s chest. Their eyes don’t meet; the redhead nods in agreement. “You can see the problem? You can see the trouble we’d have?”

Conan can barely respond above a few affirmative grunts, eyes looking anywhere else, attempting to regain control of himself so that he can finish the interview once he is allowed back up. In the back of his mind he suspects that the monumental height difference, at least for Stephen and himself, would not be as big a problem as his guest, who is already attempting to put him at ease, is making it out to be. The further away Stephen gets, the more he feels the need to say something, anything, in order to regain the upper hand here.

“I wasn’t done!” he protests, and it has the exact desired effect. The taller man loses his composure and chuckles, automatically apologising for ruining what should have been a wonderful day. “Stop trying to usher me out, you know?”

The bespectacled man returns to his seat, allowing Conan to return to his own and the audience calms down, apparently already having forgotten what had just happened. He admires their collective self-control.

“That’s some people’s ultimate fantasy, what just happened there,” Stephen remarks in such a way that it really doesn’t sound like bragging but more like a reasonable factual statement, and honestly, Conan cannot argue with that one. Settling into his chair, he turns back to face his guest and thanks every higher power he can think of that he can still look the man in the eye after that spectacle and continue the interview as naturally as they’d started it.

“I liked that; I was a British, a little British lady in that scenario.”  For a brief moment, he looks away and adds a quiet, but painfully open “I enjoyed that” before moving on, and he is surprised by how easily they can simply carry on without cracking up or pointing out what just happened in front of such a large audience. And though it dawns on him that this will go out to the world – not just the state, not just the country but the _world_ – he still manages to keep his cool about it. No big deal, anyway, right? It’s not like Steve is his _master_ or anything. As far as anyone else knows.

\----------

After the show is over and the audience is gone and the guests have said their goodbyes, Conan sits in his dressing room, drumming his fingers restlessly against the table in front of him. It’s nice and quiet and he’s made sure it’ll stay that way for a while, but still he feels nervous and his throat’s a little dry when he hears a gentle rapping on the door.

“Yeah?” he answers, though it comes out more strangled and uneasy than clear and confident.

“Conan?”  An eager smile takes over from the expression of anxiety that was screwing up his face and he relaxes, calling for the Bristolian gent to come in and close the door behind him. Stephen looks just as nervous as he feels and the redhead can’t help but let out a burst of laughter, reaching up to scratch at his temple.

“I can’t believe you did that, Stephen,” he murmurs, and the taller man knows exactly what he’s referring to. The cheeky grin only serves to make the host's face flush with anticipation. “Actually I just flat-out can’t believe we’re doing –“ He gestures around the room as though it holds some kind of significant meaning. “-this!”   Stephen moves to stand next to him, and before he can even comprehend what’s happening there’s a hand tugging roughly at his tie, causing him to have to lean over the desk. Conan doesn’t mind one bit.

“It is, actually, pretty unbelievable,” the Englishman agrees, tracing the tip of a finger down the host’s spine, whose breath hitches in his throat as he remembers that there are still people in the building; it’s still a normal work day. What if they get _caught_? Does he really even care? “But I think because it _is_ so unbelievable, no-one will actually believe it, so we don’t have to worry _too_ much. Yeah?”

“Whatever you say, Stephen,” Conan gasps as he’s coaxed out of his suit jacket, not allowed to stand up straight with firm hands keeping him bent over. Not that he would disobey his guest, but that little amount of contact feels nice and he’s happy to let it continue. The shirt’s the next thing to go, the collar pulled under the tie so that Merchant can keep a hold of it as a makeshift leash. Two fingers press into Conan’s spine and are dragged up to the nape of his neck. The redhead barely stifles the groan and Stephen chuckles into his ear.

“Oh, _madness_ , this is,” he whispers, tracing his gracious host’s shoulder blade with an expertly trimmed nail. “Didn’t think for a second that I’d be doing this. Once in a lifetime opportunity, though, isn’t it?”

As the slightly trembling but modestly skilled hand moves further down his back, Conan shivers. “Not if you come back,” he whimpers, the pull of the tie on his throat just a little uncomfortable and he curses the costume department silently for choosing a rougher fabric than usual. If Stephen pulls too hard… well, the mark it’ll leave will be difficult to hide and to explain, but the very idea of marks being left and people suspecting him and of being caught is so _exhilarating_. Fingertips are pushed into his ribcage and he feels his guest tug on the tie, forcing him away from the desk. Looking up into the face of his master-for-the-next-hour-or-so, he swallows audibly, his pulse racing.

“If you’re good for Master Stephen,” he growls, but there’s a hint of laughter in his voice that takes the edge away. “I might just do that.”  Following his master’s lead, Conan all but tumbles off of the chair, ending up on all fours on the floor. Staring down at the ground, he’s a little startled to feel something stiff curl around his neck. Stephen must have noticed the tension as he briefly runs a hand through Conan’s hair. “It’s okay; just a little something I got you. It’s nothing extravagant but, you know, doesn’t need to be, does it?”

The temporary pet quickly feels his neck and frowns. “A collar? You got me a collar?”

He can’t explain why but he feels slightly insulted as a short, thin leash is clasped onto his new neckwear. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do for your pets?”

“Well, yeah, but…” Thinking better of his defiance, he waved a hand dismissively. “You know what? Let’s just go with it.”

“Ah, now I didn’t ask for a paw, did I, Coco?” the Englishman joked, wagging a finger.

“Very funny, Steve.”

“Look, if you don’t want to do this, just remember your safe word.”

“Yes, ‘cinnamon’, I know,” he says, rolling his eyes. Although the collar actually feels comfortable; in fact the padding underneath is much softer than the now discarded tie. There's a lovely cushiony feel to it that allows him some comfort, and he hopes that means there'll be no odd fabric burns showing above his shirt collar that he has to try to explain to the make-up department as they do their best to cover it the next day. “Let’s just… let’s just continue.”

“Alright,” his master responds, wrapping the leash once around his slender hand. “But I _am_ going to have to punish you for that display of disobedience.”

“…Right.”

As quickly as he’d spoken, Stephen yanks firmly on the leash and commands Conan to put his nose to the floor and keep absolutely silent. _Never done this before, yeah right,_ he thinks slightly bitterly, losing focus and crying out as the handle of the leash comes into contact with his ribs, and _hard_.

“That’s hardly silent, is it, love?” he scolds the host, and the next hit is a little harder. Conan’s jaw tightens as he fights to keep quiet. “Remember there are people working; don’t want to disturb them, now, do you? Rude, that is. Bloody rude.”

After another few strikes of the leash, Stephen brushes soft palms along the rising welts, gently praising the redhead’s silence. Unable to stop himself, the host gives the smallest of moans and the comedian kisses the nape of his neck.

“Good so far,” he murmurs, his breath hot on his pet’s shoulder. “But we’re only getting started, aren’t we?”

\----------

Conan’s body aches, his knees are red and sore as he kneels before his master, his hands now bound behind his back with the tie. He's lost count of the hits and bites and pinches, not that any of it matters now. He's amazed that no-one came running to find out why someone was moaning in the 'empty' dressing room, something he had been punished for perhaps a little too vigorously. So worth it, though. And the little rewards for being such a good pet! He'd willingly stuff himself into a little pet carrier and accompany his master home after this session if it weren't for... well, everything that's wrong with that scenario. Hearing his name being whispered in the darkness, he tries to lean forward, to take a little more of Stephen into his mouth but the leash prevents him. God, how long does he have to _wait_? Desperately, he thrusts his hips forward in an attempt to help satisfy his own need but misses Stephen’s body by a mile, and he groans frustratedly, looking up at the taller man. Stephen simply laughs and grips the host’s hair firmly.

“Patience, love,” he teases, coaxing himself a little further into the other man’s mouth. “Just a little more…”

Despite how long it took to get to this point, despite the bruises that were definitely going to turn up on his torso in the morning and the throbbing in his left shoulder from a bite that was just a little too harsh, Conan isn’t really all that shocked when Stephen comes so easily, the tiniest motion all that was needed to set him off. Actually, he’s excited that’s all it took, because now the comedian drops to his level and hooks an arm around him, propping himself up on the redhead’s aching shoulder as he grips the host’s erection, whispering words of praise and cursing roughly. It doesn’t take Conan too long to come as well, and for a blissful moment he forgets where he is and who he’s with.

And then it all hits him and a mixture of shame and amusement takes over.

"Oh, wow," he manages to choke out, slumped over onto Stephen's shoulder. Someone walks by the door, and it's a good thing that they don't stop at the dressing room as neither man has the energy to either shuffle off to hide or come up with some kind of excuse. Although... it would be kind of hard to explain why Conan was collared and bound, covered in angry red welts and swearing softly into his guest's shoulder in the first place. He didn't think "I fell" would pass for a valid explanation...

\----------

Removing the collar, Conan rubs his neck as he hands it back to the Englishman, who shakes his head.

“No, no,” he insists, pushing it back. “You keep that.”

The silence is only slightly awkward and yet neither man can look at the other. Conan clears his throat.

“So, uh,” he starts tentatively, giving Stephen a side-glance. “Do you think you’ll come back? To the show, I mean.”

The door handle turns and the comedian grins at him mischievously.

“If you take care of me like that next time,” he says, laughter saturating his voice. “I’ll come as many times as you want.”


End file.
